Fragments
by Whisp
Summary: The Starbucks just off 7th Ave and 1st St was pretty typical fare. Open 5:30-11pm, 7 days a week, it was packed full of semi-awake, caffeine deprived customers at any given time. Having worked there almost a year now, Phil was pretty sure he'd seen everything. He was wrong. (Fix-it, not an AU)
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Fragments

**Author:** whisp

**Summary:**

The Starbucks just off 7th Ave and 1st St was pretty typical fare. Open 5:30-11pm, 7 days a week, it was packed full of semi-awake, caffeine deprived customers at any given time.

Having worked there almost a year now, Phil was pretty sure he'd seen everything.

He was wrong.

**Pairing:** Clint Barton/Phil Coulson

**Warnings:** Violence, Explicit Language

**Notes:** The obligatory fix-it. Barista and amnesiac remix. I'm aiming high here people!

N.B. - Retrograde amnesia is rather rare, especially to this extreme and completely unlikely to happen in an injury like the one Phil sustained. Please forgive my indulgence.

* * *

Phil suspected the scent of coffee was permanently ingrained in his clothes.

No matter how many times he washed them, there was always the faint underlying hint of coffee beans pervading his closet. He consoled himself with the fact that it could be worse; he could be working fast food.

Dressing quickly, Phil left his apartment, locking the door behind him and automatically checking it twice before starting down the street. Baring any unforeseen events, he would easily cover the five blocks to work with time to spare.

The Starbucks just off 7th Ave and 1st St was pretty typical fare. Open 5:30-11pm, 7 days a week, it was packed full of semi-awake, caffeine deprived customers at any given time.

Phil worked the three to eleven shift. The spot was made available after a spectacular hissy fit and subsequent walk off by the previous closing manager, or so he was told through the employee gossip mill. Every once in a while, usually after placating yet another irate customer, Phil entertained the thought of doing the same, imagining exactly where he would smash each and every mug on his way out.

It'd been ten months since he started and already he'd outlasted a good chunk of the staff. Now that it was summer, he spent most of his time corralling students desperate to earn tuition money and post-grads unable to find a job and desperate to pay off their student loans. Most of them hadn't ever served coffee before and sadly possessed little to no common sense, but Phil's done more with less.

He didn't mind the closing shift. The location was generally busy with people coming right up until close. It kept Phil occupied enough that his mind didn't wander. As an added bonus, he got to avoid the especially jittery customers who came first thing in the morning, blurry-eyed and clutching compulsively at their travel mugs.

He'd become fairly accustomed to the routine of the place by now; Day to day monotony that was interspaced with occasional bouts of absurdity were standard with any customer service job.

As usual, Phil got to the store early. The place was swamped with customers. As he walked in, the morning manager's expression lit up like Phil was the second coming. He held back a laugh, quickly ducking into the back to swipe in. There was a calendar above the time clock and Phil realized with a start that it'd been almost exactly a year to the day since he'd been found and he paused, breath caught, but the sound of a breaking mug jolted him back and he brushed the memory aside with a practised air. He tied on an apron and walked out front, throwing himself headlong into the chaos.

* * *

He woke on a Wednesday. Mugging, they told him, faces as blank as the gaps in his memory. Nothing on him but the clothes on his back and the hole through his chest.

No one came for him.

* * *

The afternoon started off like any other. At the till, there was a line of people to the door and just as many waiting for their drinks to be made. At the espresso machine, the new girl kept pulling decaf. Half the tables had yet to be cleared, the dishwasher was full, and Phil was pretty sure they'd lost a barista to the back room where she was sobbing over her latest break-up with her on again, off again boyfriend.

Phil grinned. Just the way he liked it.

Admittedly, some days Phil was tempted to sit back and just watch as the store spiralled into disarray. It reminded him of an old computer game he used to play. When he was younger, he took great delight in watching the entire trail of Lemmings cascade one after another into a brightly coloured explosion. Luckily though, those days were few and far between. Most days, he just rolled up his sleeves and waded into the fray.

He accepted the set of store keys from the frazzled looking morning manager and put the new girl on the till, quickly taking care of the backlog of drinks. Then, while the new girl kept the customers distracted by entering drinks at an agonizingly slow pace, he coaxed the other barista from the backroom (_Yes, he is an asshole. Yes I realize he doesn't deserve you. No, vehicular manslaughter is a bad idea._) and onto the espresso machine. That left him with just enough time to count out a second till to deal with the ongoing afternoon rush.

The next hour was a steady stream of customers and Phil was on top of his game, directing staff, dealing with customers, and cleaning up the mess the morning crew had made of the place.

He'd just about gotten everything organized, when he heard Lemming One (the incompetent one) stifle a gasp. Phil's head jerked up to see what she'd done now, but her eyes were on the entrance.

Tony Stark had just walked in.

Granted, Phil's memory was quite limited, but even he could recognize this man. He'd spent days on Google reading about the Avengers, who had made their appearance shortly before he'd woken up in the hospital. The new feeds had been abuzz with any information they could get and Phil'd eagerly devoured article after article. He strongly suspected his former self had a bit of a superhero obsession and after the third night of lost sleep in favour of Google searches, he neatly documented _#62) Possible crush on Captain America_ into his spiral notebook.

The notebook itself had started off as an idea by his therapists, a way to help Phil 'find himself'. The first page had his new address and phone number carefully jotted down, then degraded quickly into anything and everything he suspected may have been true of his old self. In the days following his hospital release, it was filled with half thoughts and distracted scribbles in cramped little block letters. Things like _#3) takes coffee strong with two sugars_, and _#28) boxers, not briefs,_ and _#51) disturbing fascination with bad reality tv shows_. Day after day, he reread each page, slowly trying to cobble together a picture of his old life.

He'd definitely be adding today, because Tony Stark was in the store trying to ordering his coffee, the summer students were uselessly giggling in the corner, covertly taking pictures on cell phones they weren't supposed to be carrying, and all Phil could do was desperately fight down the irrational irritation that'd popped up the instant he saw the man.

"No comments from the peanut gallery please." Phil admonished the students distractedly before reining his emotions, putting on his best customer service face, and going to the till.

Stark took one look at him and froze. "Coulson?"

Phil blinked, but responded politely. "I'm sorry sir, but I think you may have confused me with someone else."

Stark studied him carefully, eyes narrowed and Phil fought the urge to fidget under his scrutiny. After a beat, he drawled, "Sure I have. And Romanoff is just my harmless little legal aid."

Caught off guard, Phil rocking back slightly on his heels, lips pursed, having absolutely no clue how he was supposed to respond. Awkwardly, the moment stretched on. And on. For someone who was rumoured never to shut up, Stark was doing a fantastic job of proving everyone wrong. They'd crossed the line into weird a long time ago, so after another beat of silence, Phil finally prompted, "Can I take your order?"

"Are you shitting me? We're actually going to do this?" Stark searched Phil's face incredulously, looking for who knows what, but he doesn't seem to find it. "Ok no, you're not kidding. Of course not. That makes perfect sense, because Fury is a fucking lying liar who liars. I cannot believe I fell for it, that manipulative bastard. One good eye, my ass. Holy crap, Pepper's not going to believe a word I say."

And Phil, who'd been listening to Stark's muttered conversation with himself and was starting to have some serious doubts about the man's supposed genius, smiled his best customer service #3 smile (his decide now or move the fuck out of the way smile) and asked, "Sir? Would you still like any coffee?"

"Jesus Christ, Coulson." Stark swore and then at Phil's distinctly unimpressed look, he sighed, "Fine, I'll play."

Phil had no idea what argument he just won, but he'd heard that Stark'd been a little off his rocker since he flew that nuke into another dimension, so he mentally shrugged and took Stark's order. While he was rattling it off, Stark proceeded to take out his phone and flip through it, which automatically dropped Phil's opinion of the man another 50 points, but Phil was nothing if not professional and he keyed in Stark's order without pause.

Stark lingered at the cash afterwards, looking like he wanted to say something, but Lemming Two (the emotionally unstable one) finished up his order (venti soy vanilla latte, triple shot, half sweet, extra hot - I mean it, it better scald my tongue hot, and no foam) and slid it across the counter with a slight flush. She giggled as he winked, swept up this coffee and left, obliviously to the cloud of whispers that trailed him out.

* * *

The buzz that followed Tony Stark's appearance settled quickly and soon the staff were back to the routine of order, cash, and fill.

That evening, Phil received another unusual customer.

She was a people watcher. Most people don't come to coffee shops alone. Those who did brought the paper or books. They sat at the tables with earbuds crammed in their ears, heads buried, and did their level best to ignore the existence of everyone else in the store.

Not this one.

He dubbed her London Fog after the tea she ordered and the way she sifted through the crowd, near invisible despite the shock of vibrant red hair that fell in waves to her shoulders and her beautifully confident body. Everything about her should catch your eye, but somehow she wisped away to the corner and disappeared into the background, positioning herself to study the entire shop, hands curled around her mug, taking delicate sips past full blooded red lips.

No one paid her any mind but Phil. And though he never once caught her eyes on him, he couldn't shake the prickle across the back of his neck that told him he was being watched.

* * *

Memory loss due to traumatic events. Usually the memories came back, they said. Try to surround yourself with things that were familiar, they said. But as the days and weeks rolled by with no sign of progress, they slowly started to talk about other options.

Phil settled in Brooklyn because the nurse knew a nice elderly couple who were renting out their basement. He worked at the Starbucks because _#2) can't function without coffee_ is underlined multiple times in his notebook, right under _#1) raging dislike of early mornings_. As it happened, he walked in for a coffee one day and managed to walk out with a job. The first thing he bought after paying rent was a computer and an internet connection.

Both the Brooklyn Public Library and Prospect Park were in easy walking distance of his apartment. Some days before his shift he'd walk to the library, pick out a book, then find a shady spot in the park to read. He liked espionage for the unintended humour and liked history because it reminded him he hadn't forgotten everything. When he felt indulgent, he picked up comic books and hid them in between the pages of his hardcovers.

The days fell into a well ordered routine of work, research, and physiotherapy and Phil acclimatized quite well, considering the extent of his memories originated from a point a little over a year ago.

But sometimes in the dead of the night, he could feel the walls start to close in. Those nights, Phil would sneak up to the rooftop and stay perched half frozen and staring at the jagged skyline of Manhattan, seized by an untameable restlessness and a longing for something he didn't know he'd missed.

* * *

Late one night, after Phil was well into his shift, a guy walked in who Phil was pretty sure had never been to a Starbucks before, judging from the way he stared at the menu board with undisguised bewilderment. In fact, Phil amended, he'd be willing to bet that he'd never been to a coffee shop in the 21st century before, as the blond came to the counter and asked in a puzzled but polite voice if they just served regular coffee anymore.

"Mild, medium, or bold?" Phil asked.

The blond looked pained.

Phil laughed "Newbie?" He was tall and spectacularly built, but also intriguingly shy for someone with his looks. He looked vaguely familiar but Phil couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"What gave it away?" The blond answered dryly.

"Must have been your astounding command of our drink board." Phil joked, smiled kindly to take the edge off, "So what brings you to the dark side?"

"A friend sent me a text. Said he found something I'd be very interested in."

"I'm going to assume he didn't mean the drip coffee. Unless your friend has a fascination with coffee machines."

The blond laughed, catching Phil's eye and grinning widely. To Phil's utter embarrassment, he flushed unwilling in response. Good looking _and_ nice. That ought to be criminal. Oblivious, the blond continued, "He actually does have some pretty unhealthy obsessions with all things mechanical. Really, at this point, nothing would surprise me. So what would you recommend?"

"Drip or latte?"

"I'm going to pretend I knew what that meant and say either is fine. I don't mind trying something new. Surprise me?"

Usually Phil hated it when people did that, but he couldn't help but be drawn in by how friendly the guy was. Phil poured him the Colombia bold he'd just finished brewing, threw in a sprinkle of cinnamon, nutmeg, a shot of vanilla, and finished it off with a dab honey and cream.

When Phil handed him his drink, the blond looked at him, oddly focused, "I'm Steve, by the way."

Phil filed that away as he grasped the hand that Steve was holding out. "Phil." He replied with customer service #5 smile (polite, but not too enthusiastic). He didn't miss the slight drop in Steve's expression but didn't have time to contemplate it before it was gone.

Steve grabbed his drink and settled in the corner, the one that offered the best view of the room, before pulling out a large coiled notebook and a set of charcoals from the backpack he'd carried in with him. He stayed for hours, coming up to chat with Phil at regular intervals. Phil enjoyed the unexpected conversation, but he kept getting the vague notion that Steve was waiting for something to happen and seemed disappointed when it didn't.

After that night, Steve became a regular, coming in nearly every Monday and sketching in the corner while Phil watched as discreetly as he could between customers. _#153) Maybe a two on the Kinsey scale_ was decided as Steve crosshatched a background with broad easy strokes of his hand.

The next time Steve showed up, he stayed until close and gave Phil a little half smile and wave as he left, the left side of his cheek quirking up and Phil mentally amended the two to a four.

* * *

When Phil woke, it was on the tail end of a big disaster in New York. Alien invasion, an orderly told him one day and Phil's mind had immediately flashed to an image of a man with golden horns and a sinister blue glow and he hadn't even known he'd frozen still until the orderly snapped his fingers in front of his face and Phil'd come back to himself, heart racing and short of breath.

Back then his days were chequered with doctors, counsellors, and physio but in between were hours of boredom. Phil used that time for extra physio, sneaking in exercises in the hours he'd known no one would be checking on him, his roommate alternately keeping watch and cheering him on. He pushed himself easily past the limits the doctors set, knowing intuitively just how far his body could go.

When he physically couldn't do any more, he'd spent time catching up on, well, everything. Even though it'd been weeks, the papers were still filled with news on the invasion. He'd read about the increase in national guard presence and knew it meant looting and crime. Read about the Avengers disappearing and recognized strategic retreat. Read about the aggressive wave of the summer flu that swept across the city and saw diversion.

The Avengers themselves were a mystery. The only one not gone from the limelight was Tony Stark and he'd been surprising closed-lipped about the issue, turning any conversation away with ease and cutting down the extra persistent with his razor sharp tongue.

It was unknown exactly who the Avengers were. From the invasion, there'd been only glimpses of the team, blurred captures of people moving too fast or too far out of range. A flash of blond hair and red cape. A series of black fletched arrows. A man and woman peeking up from behind an overturned taxi.

There were a few photos Phil immediately identified as PR shots disguised as amateur photos then smuggled into mainstream in an effort to increase goodwill towards the team: a profile of Captain America watching over a group of firefighters, his weight rested forward on one leg, shield tucked closely at his side; the Hulk drawing the attention of aliens away from a group of civilians.

Phil examined photo after photo, driven by the urge to know more and not having a single clue as to why.

* * *

They got a lot of students here during exam time. Stressed out looking kids with overflowing backpacks and too little sleep. Because of that Phil, who was usually pretty good at spotting regulars, found with the sudden influx of students that this one slipped under his radar. It took him a few weeks before he realized the guy came in regularly to study, not just before exams like most of the students.

The guy looked too old to be a student, grey hair slowly weaving its way through locks of his brown hair, but Phil thought he had the look of a PhD candidate. Every Wednesday, he brought in a stack of articles, a highlighter, and a laptop. He ordered a camomile tea with a soft voice and sat for hours reading through his papers, eyes skimming rapidly while his hands worried at the frayed edges of his sleeves under the table.

On some Wednesdays Tony Stark, of all people, would come and sit with Camomile guy. Not since that first time had Stark made any attempt to talk to Phil and Phil gladly dodged him in return. He just sat down with Camomile guy whenever he came in and struck up a conversation. They seemed to be discussing the papers, judging from the way Stark would occasionally dig through the pile to point out something.

Camomile guy was doing a paper on memory loss, he had mentioned offhandedly to Phil one day. A meta-analysis on the correlation between traumatic events and retrograde amnesia; an investigation into the rate and extent of memory recovery, more specifically. Why Tony Stark would be interested in that, Phil had no idea, but he himself certainly had a vested interested in the topic for obvious reasons.

He used the opportunity as it was given, asking Camomile guy question after question under the guise of idle interest, but there was nothing he hadn't come across before in his own research.

He was never close enough to hear exactly what else they would discuss, but he had to admit he was curious. Because regardless of what he thought of Stark, there had to be something good about the guy. The nights he came in were the only nights he ever saw Camomile guy smile.

* * *

On the weekends, Phil went grocery shopping at the small store down the street.

Once, when he got home, he found himself putting away a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch he didn't remember buying. He tried it one morning and nearly spit out the first bite. If this was something the old him liked, then the old him had some serious deficiencies in taste.

* * *

Phil had never been one for drinking coffee past seven at night because it tended to give him strange dreams, but he'd been at the store now since five thirty this morning and had to double shift to close because the little shit he hired to open didn't show and he got a frantic call from Lemming Two at 5:20am wondering if he could please come down here right now and open the store because the angry caffeine-deprived zombie mob was starting to gather.

By the time 10:30pm rolled around, Phil had been there over 16 hours and all the coffee orders were starting to sound like the adults off Peanuts. He was sorting out the paperwork and sipping on timed out Sumatra when the masked guy came in demanding the contents of his register.

Strangely enough, his first reaction was to hold back a sigh, because seriously, could this day actually get any worse?

The guy pulled out a gun.

Yup, Phil thought, there it goes.

Phil felt his adrenaline jump, but without the panic that usually accompanied it. The sounds of customers shrieking and the scraping of tables and chairs fell to the background as Phil's vision narrowed on the gunman and his weapon.

Amateur, Phil realized as the robber came into range, too close to keep his advantage and gun gripped white knuckled with both hands. His finger was on the trigger but there was no stability in his stance. There was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes, a hesitation that _screamed_ at Phil and he acted without thinking.

Phil lashed out an arm, catching the would-be robber's wrist, twisting it hard, down and away, while his upper body jerked back to place himself out of the trajectory of the bullet just in case he got a shot off. The movement turned out to be unnecessary because in his surprise, the guy couldn't tighten his finger before Phil forced the gun from his hand.

Still holding tight to his wrist, Phil came up and over the counter, using his momentum to knock the robber back then spin him face first to the ground, both arms twisted up behind him and pinned under Phil's knee. Swiftly, he ejected the gun clip and emptied the chamber before dropping both out of reach.

The whole time, Phil could _feel_ himself going through the motions, but it felt incredibly surreal, like flashes of a dream. Even after the robber was pinned underneath him, Phil's whole body continued to drum with adrenaline, primed and ready for the next attack. Except another attack never came and Phil slowly came back to himself.

He looked around for help and caught sight of Lemming Three (the lazy one) behind the counter. He had his cell phone out and was alternately snapping pictures and gaping incredulously at Phil.

"Dude." he said, while Phil was trying to find his bearings, "That was _sick_."

"Did you at least call the police?" Phil called out dryly and, he was proud to admit, without a trace of a tremor in his voice.

Lemming Three was saved from replying by Steve because of course, it was Monday and Steve was there with his sketchpad and his venti 2% half-caf, 2 pumps caramel, 1 pump vanilla, 1 pump cinnamon dolce. (Yes, Phil was proud of himself, thank you)

Steve calmly took over, pulling out his phone and explaining the situation to the police.

By now, reality was crashing down hard. Phil thought he was actually handling things quite well until Steve was suddenly there steering Phil into the chair by the fireplace and gently pushing his head down in between his knees and ok, maybe he'd just sit this one out for a bit.

He was pretty sure he wasn't going to get the closing list done in time and should probably leave a note for the opening manager. _Was forced to ninja a robber into submission. No time to restock the coffee cups. _Phil composed half hysterically in his mind. _Ninja, that's going in the book._ Phil decided and started to hyperventilate.

Steve's hand was rubbing warm circles on his back as Phil gasped for breath, and he clung desperately to the sensation, trying to find any sort of anchor in the craziness.

Later that night, Phil sat at his desk and stared at his hands, curled so casually around his pen, the rough cuticles and unfamiliar patterns of calluses slowly going soft after a year of inactivity and he wondered what else they may have done.

* * *

A day later, he was back at work and other than some outrageous gossip, it was like nothing had ever happened. The only plus side was that Phil's reputation as a badass spread like wildfire among the staff and he no longer had to ask twice to get anything done.

Phil fell back to routine easily enough, but underneath his skin was buzzing with restlessness. His mind kept wandering off as he ran the till.

"That's impressive." Lemming One's comment startled him back into the present.

"Excuse me?" Phil asked distractedly while tapping orders out on the keypad.

"The Russian. It's a hard language to learn."

Confused, he glanced up at her, "Russian?"

She looked uncertainly at him. "That's what you were speaking to that couple, wasn't it?" She jerked her head over to the couple in the corner who were curled over their drinks and speaking in rapid fire conversation. A conversation, Phil realized with a start, that he understood perfectly.

Huh. Phil blinked. That was going in the book.

After his shift, he headed straight to the library where he discovered that it wasn't just Russian he knew.

He stopped looking after the tenth language, abruptly shoving the books across the table as if it could ease the ceaseless flow of questions flooding his mind.

* * *

It was London Fog girl who brought him in.

He remembered her from her hair, beautiful fiery locks that curled around her face while she ordered. He remembered her from every Friday for a few weeks now, usually the last hour or two before close when most of the crowd had thinned out. Sitting herself in the corner with her back to the wall and spending the night slowly sipping away, eyes casually taking in the remaining patrons. When there was no one else save the staff in the store, she usually lost herself in thought, though never enough to lose awareness of her surroundings.

For the first time since he had noticed her, she'd brought company.

Phil only caught a glimpse of the couple out of the corner of his eye as they came in, but once inside, they had a fierce whispered conversation which drew his attention to them. He almost didn't recognize her at first, her face was pinched and tight. It was the most expressive he'd ever seen her face.

Lemming One was at the till, getting better, but she still needed the practise, so Phil left her to it, instead filling the supplies for the next morning between making the orders.

She made him sit at her usual table in the corner before she ordered, the usual venti London Fog for herself, and a latte with a disturbing combination of syrups for him. Irish cream and melon, Phil pumped the syrups with a mental wince. That was just wrong.

He wondered if they were married, the two of them. They had a body language that spoke of closeness, but he had a pale strip of skin where a wedding band once sat and she didn't. He wondered if maybe they were just fucking each other on the side. They didn't seem like the type.

Phil liked to make a game of it, which couples were just starting, which ones have been going out for a while, and which ones were married with 2.5 kids and a shih-tzu. He was usually pretty good at it, but this couple was a little harder to place.

He had automatically assumed they were on a date when they walked in, but he changed his mind as the night rolled on. It was their body language. They way they turned into each other, the way they let silences lapse through their conversation, but it wasn't flirtatious nor romantic. Just comfortable.

They were both very attractive people, but they just didn't mesh in Phil's mind. She was too put together, every inch of her planned and placed and poised. He was in jeans and a hoodie, combat boots put on haphazardly and laces sloppily tied. He'd been wearing sunglasses when they came in despite the lateness of the night and when he slipped them off, Phil could see why.

He had the air of someone who'd been sick lately. Phil could see it in the slump of his shoulders, the dark circles under bloodshot eyes and that hunched, curled over posture that Phil instinctively knew wasn't there before.

They were still arguing, it took Phil a while to spot it, but he saw when the discussion turn back into heated words. Phil tried not to watch but he couldn't take his eyes away, spending the minutes in between customers stealing glances at the couple.

One glance timed exactly right for Phil to catch the guy's furtive look and they both froze. He looked uncertain, terrified like a deer in the headlights. Then London Fog spoke and her boyfriend/not-boyfriend broke off the gaze, scrubbed a hand over his face as he replied.

He was easier to read than her, eyes flashing as he leaned forward to challenge her. He couldn't tell what they were talking about, they were sitting too far away, but the argument continued long after their coffee was done. Finally he conceded, leaned back in his chair, head turned out the window and body tight with tension.

She didn't look any happier than him but slid her hand over his on his coffee cup, still talking and Phil saw him relax fractionally.

A minute later he pulled away with a sigh. Crushing his empty coffee cup, he stretched back in his seat to toss it into the trash bin, a near impossible shot that Phil wouldn't have believed if he hadn't see it. As he did, his shirt rode up and Phil caught sight of a scar.

Right above his hipbone, a starburst shape that Phil instantly knew meant bullet wound and he blinked and suddenly Phil was seeing him in a different time, a different place. He could feel warm flesh beneath his hands, feel blood that won't stop leaking out from between his fingers.

Phil jerked back in surprise, shaking his head violently as if to clear it and tried to slow the racing of his heart. He didn't dare look over again. Instead he refilled the coffee beans drawers, having to concentrate to accomplish the task with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.

That night he dreamt of flying ships and dodging bullets and two people dressed in shadows, fighting between meagre slates of light.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, look! Creepy staring guy's back again." Lemming Two commented as she brushed by Phil on the way to grab the milk from the fridge.

"Aww, don't make fun of him. I think it's sweet how he has a massive crush on Phil." Lemming One spoke up over the hiss of the espresso machine, "You know, in that creepy, stalkerish kind of way. Although I have to say, I do wish he would blink more often. It is a little unnerving."

Lemming Two leaned in with a grin, "Do you think we should take his picture and see if he's on one of those sexual predators lists? Do they even have a predator list for people who go after old guys?"

"Huh, maybe. But I think it's called Craigslist." Lemming One smirked. She peered around the machine, studying the man in the corner. "You've got to admit, he is kind of hot. You should totally ask him out, Phil."

"Hmm?" Phil glanced up from his clipboard, distracted. Both girls were looking at him expectantly so he mentally replayed the last few moments of their conversation. He sighed, "That will certainly not be happening any time soon, so I suggest you don't get your hopes up. Do I need to find something for you ladies to do? Other than harass clients in voices that you may think are quiet but are sadly the product of too much time spent with earbuds crammed into your ears."

Lemming Two frowned "Who said we were trying to be quiet?"

Phil pursed his lips, looking pained, "The task list, please. Try to get at least half of it done before wandering off on your next tangent."

As they grumbled but obediently started on the chores, Phil looked up to the object of their attention. It was London Fog's Boyfriend/Not-boyfriend sitting in what Phil had come to think of as their corner and sipping on his Venti salted coconut cinnamon dolce latte. While pumping the syrups, Lemming Two had made a face then turned and dared Phil to drink it. Sometimes Phil wondered when his job description had changed to include the phrase 'glorified babysitter'.

Phil thought the guy was looking healthier. He'd been there just about every day since Phil had first seen him and had stayed for a couple of hours each time, curled over whatever bizarre latte he'd chosen that day. The circles under his eyes had lessened and there was a much less coiled feeling radiating off him.

Inexplicably, Phil found his eye drawn to him every time he entered the store. He was good-looking, the girls certainly weren't wrong about that. Also, it had become apparent over the course of the week that he had some sort of vendetta again sleeves. It showed off his very well muscled arms with little left to the imagination and Phil would make a joke here about guns like that being illegal, but he's not that much of a dork, thank you very much.

At first, Phil had thought he was watching the traffic out in the street. He would spend hours unmoving except to sip his drink, but a few day ago, the light had hit just right and Phil'd caught the reflection of the guy's eyes in the window, staring back into his own. He wanted to ask, wanted to walk up to the guy and strike up a conversation, but when Phil looked at him, his mind would jump back to the vivid feel of blood and flesh and muscle under his fingers and he stopped before he could approach every time.

The guy watched him often, and Phil would be disturbed except he returned the favour just as frequently, wondering what it was that was so intriguing about this man. Why couldn't he let him go?

Steve had dropped in once when the guy had been here and to Phil's surprise, had sat himself down at the table in the corner. His sketchbook had been forgotten that night as Steve chatted.

After that, Phil noticed a succession of his regulars dropping by, plunking themselves unceremoniously at Boyfriend/Not-boyfriend's table, sometimes doing nothing more than sitting.

Phil itched to make sense of it all, to slot this man into his neatly organized world, but night after night he sat, hand poised over his notebook, waiting for words that wouldn't come.

* * *

Boyfriend/Not-boyfriend's name was Clint. Phil found this out by cracking down on their policy to take down names on the cups so they could call them out when the person's order was ready.

He got the name confirmed a night later while closing. Wednesday night, so Camomile guy was there, highlighter in one hand and pen in the other, sitting across from Stark. Not-boyfriend was there as well, across the room with his hands wrapped around his latte and taking slow sips. Phil tried not to stare when he flicked out the tip of his tongue to lick foam from his top lip.

He thought he was doing a pretty good job at being stealthy until Tony Stark shot up abruptly, his chair clattering out from underneath him and declared, "That's it. I can't take it anymore. Watching the two of you is more painful than watching Steve type." Stark shuddered and stalked to the table in the corner.

He got Clint to stand using a string of sharp words and gestures and then marched him over to where Phil was attempting to casually wipe down the counter, resolutely not watching the exchange.

Stark's grin reminded Phil uncomfortably of a shark closing in on prey. He pointed at each of them in turn.  
"Phil meet Clint. Clint, Phil. He wants you to take him home and sex him up in whatever way you see fit and I'm willing to bet ridiculously large amounts of money that you feel exactly the same way. There. It's been said. Now you kids have at it, though preferably not right on this counter."

Clint growled. "I'm going to put holes in every car you own, Stark."

He smirked at Clint. "You're welcome."

"Every. Single. Car."

"It'll be worth it. You need to get over yourself and all your little hang-ups." Stark informed Clint, matter-of-fact, "Now you two can run off into the sunset and make biologically impossible babies together. And you can stop emo-ing all the freaking time. It's win-win. Bruce and I are tired of your bullshit, right Bruce?"

Camomile guy - Bruce - laughed (he laughed!). With a shake of his head, he held his hands up as if that could do anything to stop Stark. When he spoke, it was around the amused curl of his mouth, "Not this time Tony. You're on your own."

"I'm only doing this for his own good." Stark informed him primly and turned back to the couple. He blatantly ignored the fact that Clint looked fit to murder Stark right then and there, and Phil was glancing between the two like he didn't know whether to call the cops or the insane asylum, "Phil, he's not a crazy stalker, I swear. You can tell your minions to stop trolling America's most wanted lists. And Clint? Don't say I never did anything for you."

Phil opened his mouth to protest but Clint shook his head. "He's like a kidney stone. Just grit your teeth and it'll be over soon."

"Just say thank you Barton, and we'll be on our way."

"Fuck you, Stark."

Stark sniffed and called to Bruce, who was trying (and failing) to hid his grin. "You know, I'm sensing a distinct lack of appreciating here. You see what happens? You work and you work, and you just want what's best for everyone, and this is the thanks I get. Now does that seem fair to anyone? Come on Bruce. I know a good place for burritos."

Bruce mouthed a sorry, whether it was to him or Clint, Phil didn't know, and started to pack up their papers. Phil thought he looked much too entertained to be genuinely apologetic.

It would be a vast understatement to say Phil was a little flabbergasted. Stark hadn't said two words to him since the day that they'd first met. Why he was suddenly so deeply invested in his love life, Phil has absolutely no clue.

They stayed silent as the other two finished packing and left; Stark leered as Bruce pushed him out the door. Afterwards, a quiet settled between them, eerily still like the aftermath of a earthquake.

"Awkward…" Phil heard Clint mutter. He agreed wholeheartedly.

Phil racked his brain. Sadly, the employee manual didn't say anything about what to do in this situation. He offered a hesitant, "Nice to meet you?"

Clint laughed and the tension in the room dropped considerably. Relieved, Phil cracked a smile in return. Clint shrugged, "Sorry. Tony means well, but he's not the most socially adjusted person ever."

"Kind of like a freight train, huh?"

Clint grinned, "Less subtle, but yeah."

Phil hesitated a moment, then mentioned in what he hoped was an offhanded manner, "He's not entirely off the mark."

Clint rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his blush spreading to the tip of his ears. "Yeah, I guess not. Maybe," Clint suggested, hesitantly, "Maybe we could get to know each other?"

Phil nodded and smiled when he saw the tension leave Clint's body, "I'd like that."

* * *

Phil had to hand it to Stark, after that night Phil found it a lot easier to be relaxed around Clint. He still came in often. The main difference being now Clint broke into this smile that light up his expression every time he caught sight of Phil.

Privately, Phil thought that Clint must have done some irreparable damage to his taste buds when he was younger, because there was no way anyone should be able to stomach some of the combinations he tried. Melon toffee nut? Chocolate matcha?

After the second week, Phil started to suspect the guy was actively trying to gross him out. There was a hint of amusement every time Phil took his order and Phil refused to raise to the bait. He bit back his reaction and made every combination with the blandest expression he could muster.

But by the second time he made a grande 2 pumps raspberry, 2 pumps pumpkin spice, with cinnamon sprinkled whip, Phil couldn't hold it back anymore. He gave a small wince as he held out Clint's drink. "I'm sorry." Phil said.

"Umm, that's ok?" Clint replied, confused.

"No." Phil shot him a crooked grin, "I was pre-emptively apologizing to your taste buds."

Clint laughed. His fingers brushed warm against Phil as he grabbed his drink. "Not my fault. I knew this guy who was completely obsessed with mixing syrup flavours and he got me hooked on it."

"I doubt anyone has such horrible tastes."

"I swear it's true." Clint's smile grew fond in memory, "He was this stone-cold bastard, too. He used to terrorize the underlings while sipping on the fruitiest drinks known to mankind. It sort of boggled your mind."

Phil hummed. "He sounds like an interesting guy."

"That's just the tip of the iceberg." Clint confided and Phil noted how the corners of his eyes crinkled up when he smiled. He snapped the lid on his coffee and raised it in salute before heading off to his usual table.

* * *

The next time Clint came in, coffee blasphemy on the tip of his tongue, Phil just rolled his eyes.

On a whim, Phil tossed in an extra shot of maple and a dash of nutmeg on top, which you're never suppose to do, because if there's one thing they teach you in training, it was to _never, ever _fuck around with someone's coffee order.

But Clint's surprised look when he tasted it and the startled but genuine smile he threw in Phil's direction made it completely worth it.

* * *

At night, Phil slept on the left side of the bed. Sometimes in the middle of the night, groggy and half-asleep, he would reach a hand to the other side, only to startle awake when he found the sheets cold and empty.

* * *

Eventually it became routine, Clint chatting as Phil worked, a background running commentary on anything and everything. Phil listened with half an ear, letting the words wash over him while he was pulling shots on the espresso machine. Every once in a while it acted up and those times, Phil was the only one who could work it properly.

Lemming One was working the till and she must have been studying medicine, because Phil couldn't read a single notation she'd made on the cups. After the third set of illegible scribbles, he called her name to clarify it, but she was too busy ogling Steve who was oblivious in the corner.

He snapped his fingers, "Miranda! Talk to me."

After getting the right notations, Phil turned to Clint to share an eye roll, only to notice that Clint had stopped dead, looking like someone had struck him.

He frowned, "Clint? What's wrong?"

Clint came back with a small shake of his head. He shrugged off Phil concern, "Nothing. Sorry, nothing. Got a little lost in my head there."

Phil twitched an eyebrow, "Scary place?"

Clint laughed but it had a slight forced edge to it, "Like you wouldn't believe."

* * *

Phil was disappointed when it reached eleven-o-clock. It had been a slow night. Clint had stopped by about an hour ago and they'd been chatting ever since. It was an easy conversation, flowing from topic to topic like Phil had never been able to do with anyone. Clint never failed to make him laugh either, lighter than he'd felt since he'd woken.

"I have to close." Phil jerked a head towards the door. "Sorry."

"Do you want any help?" Clint offered. "I, uh, used to work in a coffee place, way back when. I don't mind staying a few minutes to help. I could umm…"

Phil raised an eyebrow. He hadn't heard Clint this nervous since the first day they talked. It was kind of adorable.

Clint blushed, "I could walk you home after. I mean, cause it's dark and everything. In case anything happens. I mean, not that I'm saying you can't take care of yourself, because I know you can, but it's dark and quiet outside, and uh… yeah. I'm going to shut up now." Clint turned a furiously red. He returned Phil's amused smile with a self-depreciation grin.

Phil locked the door with an audible click and graciously ignored Clint's stammering. "Well, I won't say no to a little extra help. Start on the panini grill?"

Five minutes later, Phil came back from counting the cash, and Clint was still staring at the panini prep station, a vaguely confused look on his face.

Phil bit back a laugh and handed him a damp cloth. "Wipe down the tables. I'm sure you're more than capable of doing that."

Clint nodded sheepishly and accepted the cloth.

Afterwards, they walked back to Phil's place, setting a leisurely pace. They walked closely, shoulders almost brushing. Times like these, Phil could feel the steadiness of Clint's presence beside him and it felt like they'd spent a lifetime together. He wanted nothing more than to be able to reach over and take Clint's hand. The five blocks were over much too soon for his liking.

"Made it." Phil couldn't resist teasing, "Safe and sound."

"Safe and sound." Clint echoed with a faint smile.

"Do you want to come in?" Phil asked "I could make some coffee. I've been told I'm pretty good at it."

Clint looked regretful as he shook his head, "I probably shouldn't."

Involuntarily, Phil's eyes darted down to Clint's left hand and he cringed, "Right, sorry."

"No!" Clint injected quickly "I'm not-, it's just not the right time. Things are kind of strange and complicated right now."

Phil back away a step. "I'm sorry. Too fast, wasn't it?"

"No, shit, this is coming out wrong. What I mean is, I want to, I really do, but it's-"

"Complicated?" Phil finished gently. He brushed his fingertips lightly over the back of Clint's hand, "Don't worry, I get it."

Clint scrubbed a hand across his face, sighing heavily, "Christ, this is seriously weird." He looked so miserable that Phil's chest ached in response, but he can't think of anything to say.

"I'm sor-" He started.

The apology was halfway out, when Clint muttered "fuck it" and flung out a hand.

He pressed his palm briefly to Phil chest, solid and heavy, then fisted it tightly into the fabric of his shirt and dragged him in for a kiss. It was a startling sensation of warm and dry, Clint's lips were cracked where he worried at them endlessly.

There was a moment's hesitation, then Phil responded, parting his lips and kissing Clint back. He tilted his head to the right and deepened the contact as Clint surged up to meet him.

Heart jumping in his chest, Phil lost himself, swept up in an overwhelming sense of rightness. Of how this man, whom he'd known for less than two weeks felt more familiar to him than anything else in this life he'd managed to cobbled together.

Clint's arms slid around him, locking behind the groove of Phil's lower back and aligning their bodies together. He shifted a leg in between Phil's thighs, leaning him against the door and Phil's arms come up automatically in response, hands threading through the wiry hair on the back of Clint's head and tightening his grip.

He lost time, slowly exploring Clint's kiss. It was slow and easy and so perfectly in sync. When Phil inevitably ran out of air, he pulled back barely an inch, panting shallow breaths into the narrow space between them.

Reluctantly, Clint stopped as well, whimpering softly against Phil's lips. And there was an odd hint of desperation in the hesitation with which Clint pulled away, in the slow and shuddering breath he drew.

From the low light of the streetlamp, Clint's skin caught under its glow and Phil was surprised to see tear tracks running down his face. Catching his cheek, Phil swiped a thumb through the tears and Clint pulled back in surprise, scrubbing a hand over his cheeks, like he hadn't realized they'd been there in the first place.

Phil knew something was else going on and wished he could read the myriad of thoughts sliding across Clint's face so he could figure out why he suddenly looked so lost. Nevertheless he whispered out a soft apology.

Clint choked out a laugh that Phil suspected was actually a sob, "No.. No, that was…" He trailed off, thumb unconsciously rubbing at the empty space on his fourth finger, and he swallowed hard. "It's not you. I shouldn't have-" He pulled away and swore under his breath, "Everything's such a mess."

"It's okay." Phil said, heart aching for him and not knowing why.

Clint smiled, tinged with sadness, "It's really not, but I appreciate that."

"Do you want to talk about it? You could come in for coffee. Actual coffee."

This time Clint's laugh sounded a little more natural. "I think I've embarrassed myself enough for a night. I should probably go." His hand made an aborted movement to reach up as if to cup Phil's cheek, before he clenched it tightly at his side. With a tight nod, Clint gathered himself. He wished him goodnight and started down the street.

Not sure whether he should follow, Phil stood unsettled in the doorway, watching his retreat. As he walked, Clint pulled up the collar of his coat around him like a shield and swiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

Long after Clint disappeared around the corner, Phil stayed outside, hand rested lightly over his chest to the place where Clint had briefly pressed his palm and where underneath, he could feel the ragged edges of scar tissue rising sharply under the material of his shirt.

* * *

He didn't see Clint for another week, through that doesn't stop him from glancing up every time the door opened. His friends are in and they must known something was up. Steve couldn't stop shooting him sympathetic looks, and Natasha was more talkative than usual, but Phil didn't ask after Clint. He's too afraid of what the answer might be.

When Clint finally did appear, it was when Phil least expected it. He finished locking up for the night and when he turned around, Clint was there, no sound of footsteps proceeding him and a sheepish expression on his face, like he wasn't sure of his welcome.

"Came to walk me home?" Phil said, voice deceptively calm against the rapid beat of his pulse.

"Yeah, if you don't mind. I should probably explain." The part of Phil that wasn't currently panicking registered that Clint looked just as nervous.

Phil shrugged, sliding his keys away into his pocket then pulling up the zipper of his jacket. "You don't owe me anything."

"Yes, I do." Clint said forcefully. "I was being stupid the other night; I need to explain."

"Clint -"

"I shouldn't have kissed you."

Phil pulled back hurt and immediately struggled to remove the emotion from his face.

Clint grimaced "That came out wrong."

"Sounded pretty clear to me." Phil said.

"I'm fucking this up, aren't I?" Clint reached out and caught Phil before he could walk away. For a moment he paused, worrying at his lip as he tried to come up with the right words. "What I meant is, it was wrong of me to jump you like that and then run away."

"Then why?"

"I don't know. Because… because I like you? Because I wanted to?" Clint stared down at the place where his hand was still grasped lightly around Phil's bicep. The warmth from his hand seeped into Phil's skin as he clung on. Clint sighed. "Because I _still_ want to, but I can't. It's -"

"Complicated. I get it." Phil interrupted, a flare of frustration rising at the excuse. Suddenly more irritated then he'd been all week, he pulled away and started down the street, not waiting to see if Clint followed.

Clint caught up fast, walking to his left and just behind his shoulder, footfalls falling into sync with Phil's. "I know I probably should have told you earlier, but things are really, really weird right now for reasons I can't really talk about and I didn't want to ruin how well we were getting along. I get that you're mad-"

"I'm not mad."

Clint snorted. "Well, you're doing a really good impression of it."

Phil sighed "Clint. I think we could start something really great between us. But you're not over him. Whoever he was to you. And I would prefer not to be caught in the middle; I can't compete with a ghost."

Clint winced. "I'm sorry. I just need to explain."

Abruptly, Phil stopped, arms crossed over his chest, the glow from the streetlamp casting sharp shadows across his face. "Then explain."

Clint took in a shaky breath and when he spoke, it was quiet enough that Phil almost had to lean in to hear. "You're right. I used to be married."

Phil nodded, suspicion confirmed.

"About ago year ago he died." Clint looked away from Phil, jaw tightening as he swallowed hard, "Everyone kept saying that it would have happened anyway, that there was nothing I could have done to stop it, but it didn't change the fact that he was still dead.

"After that, things got kind of fuzzy. I sort of… lost it. Couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. I couldn't stay here, not when everything reminding me of what I'd lost."

"Where did you end up?"

Clint shrugged, "Anywhere. Everywhere. I took any job that would get me out of New York. At the time, there was other stuff I had to work through too. It was like everything was crowding in and there was no way to shut it off. The only thing I could do was keep running. So I kept running. Eventually my work stopped giving me assignments, tried to get me back in New York, so I went off grid. Anything to keep me from having to face the truth.

"I finally hit rock bottom in this shit-hole of a city in the middle of nowhere and then Natasha showed up." Clint laughed faintly, "She broke into the place in the middle of the night, literally bound and gagged me, then flew me back to New York and told me to get over myself. And then she brought me here. And I saw you.

"And you're everything he was. Funny and smart and sarcastic as hell but-"

Clint trailed off but Phil could fill in the blanks easily enough, "I'm not him."

"No." Clint said simply. "No, you're not."

He paused and in the silence, Clint studied Phil carefully, eyes glinting under the incandescent light, searching, prying, and Phil felt himself stripped bare under the weight of his gaze. "What is it?"

"I don't know. I just keep expecting- I don't know- something to be there, but it's not."

Phil felt disappointment wash over him, but as he opened his mouth to respond, Clint stopped him with a hand on his hip; it was a gesture more intimate than Phil had expected and it stopped him before he could speak. "I know it's not fair to you, and I know there's a lot of issues I have to get through before this can work, but at the risk of sounding like a 16 year old, I really like you Phil, and I do want this to work."

Phil didn't respond to Clint right away. Despite the light tone Clint had used towards the end, he could see how much this admission took out of him. Could see where the scars still lurked behind his eyes. He felt his earlier frustrations calm down though the issue was still there. Clint was clearly not over his late husband and that was not the most conductive start to any relationship.

Part of him wanted to have no part in this; he had enough of his own issues without dealing with someone else's too. But then he felt the solid presence of Clint's hand on his hip, the light brush of his fingers against his skin, and suddenly the only thing at the forefront of his mind was the kiss they shared. And as he remembered, he craved it - that feeling of rightness, the familiarity of their touch, how the scent of Clint's skin triggering something just beyond his reach. He knew without fail that he would do anything to experience it again.

Lost in memory, he almost missed when Clint asked tentatively, "Did I scare you off?"

Phil's mouth twisted to the side, "I thought these types of situations only happened on TV."

"Welcome to my life." Clint said ruefully.

Phil huffed a laugh, an imitation at best. He said truthfully, "It's a lot of information for me to comprehend right now. I don't really know what to say, but I want this to work too."

"Thank you." Clint pressed a chaste kiss to Phil's cheek. He squeezed his hip lightly before dropping his hand away. "Come on, I come with you the rest of the way home."

* * *

"While we're on the topic of sharing, there's something you should know. About me."

Sunday night was usually dead and this one was no exception so Phil had sent everyone home early and finished up the closing list. Clint had come by late, and Phil took the rare opportunity to sit down and share a cup of tea while tallying up the sales.

Clint raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to go on.

Phil took a deep breath and steadied himself before saying, "I know nothing about my life past one year ago."

"How much is nothing?" Phil was impressed. Clint was taking the revelation in stride surprisingly well. He didn't even look shocked, which put him a step up from pretty much everyone else he'd ever told.

Shrugging, Phil replied, "Pretty much nothing, nothing. I didn't even remember my own name. The nurses said the guy who brought me in told them my name was Phil, but he could have made that up for all I remember. He never came back."

"Some guy brought you in?" Clint asked, eyes narrowing. "Did he have an eye patch?"

Phil looked at him oddly. "Not that they mentioned. Why?"

Clint shook his head, "It's stupid. Never mind. Go on."

Phil shrugged. "There's really not much more to tell. I got out of the hospital. Got a place, got a job. Every once in a while, I get bits and pieces, I think, but none of it makes any sense."

"What bits?"

Phil opened his mouth to reply, to tell Clint about the robbery, about the comics, about the cereal, about all the little edges he'd grasped of his old life, but he blinked and there was blood under his fingertips and a flash of blood and terror surging though his mind, as strong as that first night he saw Clint and he stopped short. Instead he shrugged. "Nothing really concrete. It just scattered flashes here and there."

"Do your memories-, I mean, do you ever..." Clint trailed off. His hands fiddled with the rim of his empty cup as he silently debated with himself. He shook his head and braced and caught Phil's eye. "Phil, are you happy here?"

That took Phil off guard. It was a loaded question. Phil'd never been unhappy here, but he knew that there was a distinct difference between being settle, being content, and being happy. He liked his job, as frustrating as it was sometimes, was fond of the people he worked with, and liked the people in his life, but was he happy?

"I don't know." He answered as honestly as he could. Phil had no tether, no gauge. No barometer to measure it against except what he read about in books. His life consisted of one big question mark. How could he know? Phil struggled to articulate a better answer.

Before he could speak, the squeak of the door opening caught Phil's attention. Caught up in their conversation, Phil hadn't noticed when it had passed eleven and he'd forgotten to lock the store door. The two men wandered in slowly, taking in the store's interior and layout.

Across from him, Clint stiffened almost imperceptibly and Phil's eyes flickered back and forth, trying to gauge what had caused Clint's sudden change in demeanour.

When Phil pushed his chair out backwards to get up, Clint stopped him with a his hand over his, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. He moved around Phil so he was standing between him and the men.

"We're closed." Clint said, voice not giving an inch.

The taller man shrugged and smirked, "Just as well. Or haven't you heard coffee stunts your growth?"

The other man started reaching towards the waistband of his pants when Clint lashed out with the chair he was sitting on, catching the first guy square across the body. He shoved Phil towards the back room before he turned to engage the second man. "Run!' He hissed.

Pretense gone, the two guys started to attack. Within seconds, it was clear they were well trained.

Phil scrambled into the back room, one hand dialling frantically on his cell phone while he scanned the room for anything he could use as a weapon. The crashes from the front room were interspaced with grunts and curses but then a particularly pained cry from Clint drew Phil back into the open, syrup bottles in hand. He spared a quick second to curse corporate's decision to switch over to the plastic bottles before he launched one at the closest attacker and brandished the other like a weapon.

Clint had gone down with a blow to the head, judging from the way he was struggling to get off the ground. He was failing miserably, hands sliding in the mess of blood and glass surrounding him.

"Stay back." Phil said, trying to keep everyone in his sights. "Don't move any closer."

The guy raised his eyebrow, "Or you'll give me diabetes?"

His associate snorted with laughter as he crunched through the debris towards Clint. Phil's makeshift projectile had done little to slow him down, and he watched helplessly as the man knelt on Clint's back and fisted a hand into his hair. Clint's teeth pulled back in a snarl as the man pulled his head back and levelled his gun at the back of his head.

"Listen up. We don't want your boy, we just want you. So come with us quietly, and my associate won't put a bullet into your friend's head."

"What do you want from me?"

Despite Phil's protests, he took another step forward, and then another, hands spread in front of him, mock innocent, "Just came to pay you a visit, that's all. To watch you serving coffee for 12 bucks an hour. It's not every day you get a treat like that."

Phil's body stilled. His hands gripped and regripped the bottle neck, fingers twitching. "Who are you?"

"I'm just someone who's interested in picking through that fascinating brain of yours. I'm sure you've got all sort of secrets." The man's grin was feral, "And we have ways of making you share."

Abruptly, Phil jolted when his back hit the counter and he berated himself for letting the guy back him into a corner. "Stop. I've already called the police."

The man laughed, "The police. Oh how the mighty have fallen. I'm going to count to three. And then I'm going to splatter your friend's blood all over the wall. It's your choice if you want to stop it."

Phil started to lower the bottle, when two things happened near simultaneously. One - Clint choked out "Run, you idiot" from where he was pinned against the ground and two - Iron Man burst through the front door.

Thinking back, Phil could isolate this as the point when the whole situation took a nosedive straight down the rabbit hole.

* * *

Phil was pretty sure he'd dreamt about something like this before. Surreal, warped dreams where everyone spoke like they were underwater. He's not quite sure why he wasn't waking up this time.

"Steve?" Phil asked dazed as the dust started to settle.

Steve - no, Captain America - slung his shield back across his back and bent over to hoist an only partially conscious Clint up. "Um… Hey. Phil.-" His expression was sheepish, but it looked horrendously out of place against the backdrop of his cowl and uniform.

Natasha crossed in between the two of them, face giving away nothing, and she smoothly pulled Clint away with only a nod to Phil. He watched them head towards the jet that had landed in the middle of an intersection.

As they got closer, Bruce stepped down from the jet entrance to give Natasha a hand and the easy way in which he pulled Clint up belayed a hidden strength. Phil watched how he pushed back the frayed sleeves of his sweater before peeling one of Clint's eyelid open to check his pupils. He tried to reconcile these people around him with his coffee regulars but his brain was sending back an utter failure to comprehend.

Steve scratched the back of his neck, exposed after he pulled his cowl back, "So, ummm. We owe you an explanation."

"That's been happening a lot lately." Phil responded. He looked at the door that was barely hanging on its hinges and the glass crunching under Steve's boots as he shifted. He thought his life was odd before, but today really took the cake. "Though it would be nice."

Which was how Phil found himself getting strapped into a seat by Captain America in a jet _sitting in the middle of an intersection_, while Iron Man and the Black Widow took to the controls at the front.

This was definitely one for the notebook.

* * *

Phil was directed to one of the guest rooms to clean up. Everything he'd ever said about Tony Stark, he took back when he saw the shower. Messaging jets, body spray, high pressure, Phil would have lived in there if he could. He revelled under the pounding spray, hands braced against the opposite wall and let it wash away some of the tension from the day.

Once, he'd caught the end of a show where the main character had had a super computer downloaded into his brain. One of his favourite phrases had been _don't freak out_ and it had stuck in his mind. Now Phil found himself repeat it like a mantra, struggling to retain the calm he'd held throughout the whole ordeal, starting from the first day of his hospital stay. Easy enough, he tried to convince himself. Just don't freak out.

Phil was a practical man, he knew that much of himself. Since the beginning, he had seldom allowed himself to hope, and especially not as the weeks and months had passed, but now his mind was fraught with possibilities. Questions that he'd lost faith would ever be answered. He ducked his head under the spray, turned the water up until it nearly scalded his skin, trying to quiet the torrent flooding his mind.

He allowed himself another 5 minutes before shutting off the tap. Starbucks as a company was attempting to join the green revolution and there had been many a lectures on their employees towing the company line and living green. Phil would be remiss if some of that hadn't took.

There was a set of clean clothes laid out on the bed when he exited the bathroom. A pair of sweats and an old Iowa Hawkeyes hoodie, the elastics of the cuff were stretched out and frayed. The clothing fitted well enough and Phil appreciated the extra warmth it provided.

He padded into the hallway towards what he hoped was the living room. He was just short of the entrance when the voices stopped him from making his presence known.

"He's not staying."

"Clint, be reasonable. He deserves better. I would have expected you of all people to be one jumping at the chance to get him back."

"No. He's not staying."

_Eavesdroppers never heard what they want to hear_ A voice chided at the back of Phil's mind, but he couldn't move, frozen just beyond the edge of light spilling from the room. He recognized Clint's voice instantly and the rest were easy enough to match to the faces of his regulars.

He tried to visualize the Avengers in their place. He imagined them sitting full costumed in the living room, a ridiculous caricature of superheroes sipping coffee and airily debating his fate. The absurdity made his head spin.

"Why not? You want him to rot away making coffee for the rest of his life? Look, I can have the best specialist in the country on payroll by tomorrow."

"You guys don't get it. Phil doesn't need fixing. What he needs is to not be dead. And if he continues with us, that's exactly what's going to happen."

A sigh. "Clint, please sit down before you fall down. It's past time to bring him in. He'd be safer in the tower."

"With no memories and no training? We can't lock him in here. What are we going to take turns babysitting him, make sure he stays out of trouble?"

You can't keep this from him-"

"You think I want to? You think I haven't thought about this for every single waking moment? It's been over a year. I know just as well as you guys that if his memory was going to come back, it would have come back by now. Who wants to be the one to say - _Hey Phil. Welcome back. By the way, I hope you still remember how to kill someone with a ballpoint pen?_"

"Clint, you're being ridiculous."

"Am I really? Because I may be concussed, but I'm pretty sure I saw Phil trying to fend off a couple of contract killers with a bottle of syrup."

"The mind is complicated. There may still be a chance -"

"No, Bruce. I'm not risking his life on a hunch. Tonight was a wake-up call. We led those guys straight to him. If he stays here, we might as well truss him up and put him on HYDRA's doorstep."

"You think he would have wanted this?"

"It doesn't fucking matter what he would have wanted, because he can't remember shit. Do you guys get that? There is _nothing_ left of Phil."

"Clint.." That was Natasha's soft voice.

"Save it, Nat. I know." Clint sighed. "I know. I just want -" His voice cracked, "I just want him to be safe and if that means staying away, I'll do it. We can't go there anymore. _I_ can't go there anymore. And I'm not changing my mind about this."

"He might -"

"- Phil deserves -"

"- The tower's perfectly -"

"No. He was my husband." Clint's voice rose above the cacophony. There was enough steel underlying his words to silence the room. "He was my husband and that means that I get the final say. Phil is not moving to the tower, he is not staying, and every single one of us is going to stay the fuck out of his life."

_Oh._ Phil put a numb hand to the wall. The snippets of conversation rang in the air around him, garbled like he was under water. He should go in there. There were questions he had. Questions he needed answered.

Dots danced into the edge of his vision. The air was suddenly crowding in, pressing until he couldn't catch his breath.

He was in the elevator before he realized it, blinking at the man staring back at him in the door's reflection. It was a face he had to relearned, a body and hands he didn't recognize. There was a stranger staring back at him. A stranger who killed people for a living. A stranger who had a life, a job, _a husband_.

He didn't know who this person was.

He needed to go back. Needed to storm the room and shake Clint until all his secrets spilled out. All the facts, the nuances, the quirks, until he was himself again. Until he could wake up in the morning and feel like he fitted into his own skin.

But the elevator dinged on the ground floor and Phil's feet echoed across the empty expanse of the lobby. The chill of the night creped under the collar of the hoodie. He started shivering and couldn't stop.

Don't freak out, he said to himself. And he wasn't, he wasn't. He just needed to find the subway entrance. He need to go home, needed to get away, needed to find somewhere quiet enough to sort the riot of thoughts in his head.

Faintly, he heard someone calling his name as he walked down the street, but he didn't turn and no one followed.

* * *

Phil dreamt that night.

Standing across Clint, unable to fight down his grin. Sliding through mud and rain in New Mexico. A stray touch on the small of his back. The run of fingers through his hair.

A blade carving through the his chest and drowning words as he choked and pleaded and struggled against the encroaching darkness.

When he woke, Phil remembered nothing.

* * *

The next morning, Phil got up and he got dressed. He exited out the front door, checked the lock twice, and walked five blocks to work.

The tables hadn't been cleared, none of the cups had been refilled, and Lemming Three called in sick for the third time this month. He got in a fight with the espresso machine, watched the new kid put an extra shot of syrup in every latte, and listened to Lemming Two enthuse about her reunion with her boyfriend.

The floor had a new finish. The door had lost that tiny squeak upon opening.

It didn't seem important enough to bring up to anyone else.

* * *

There was light peaking out from underneath his front door. He didn't leave any lights on.

Phil entered cautiously, keys slotted in between his fingers as he made a fist. It was a poor defence, but the best he could think of at the last moment. Upon entering, he stopped, stock still in the middle of the doorway, clutching his keyring until it left little red marks in his skin.

"You're more a five." Clint remarked conversationally, without looking up from the notebook. "On the Kinsey scale."

"Oh." Phil said, because he couldn't say anything else. He made himself come the rest of the way in, closed the door and leaned up against it. He fought the urge to rub a hand to his sternum. There was a tightness welling up, a feeling he couldn't name. It felt like fire ants crawling under his skin until all he wanted to do was scream.

Clint slid his chair back, hands clenched against the rough grain of the desk, but made no move the get up. The desk didn't fit him, the thought occurred to Phil vaguely. His entire room clashed with Clint as the sudden focal point; his bow callused hands and dirt tracked in from under his boots. Just above his head, the basement window let through little slivers of light that played across his features, deepening the shadows across his face.

That first day, after Stark, Phil had googled Phil Coulson in every permutation he could think of. Last night, he repeated the search, researching every result until his eyes couldn't focus anymore. He shook his head. "Phil Coulson doesn't exist."

"No." Clint said evenly, "Not on paper."

Phil tested out the name. It felt foreign on his tongue, soured and tainted with each use. He glanced down, trying to regain his composure. There were rough patches on his hands and he worried at them absently, the tender spot where he burnt himself on the espresso machine, the dry area where a trigger callus would lay. He asked softly, "Am I him?"

Clint's eyes flickered to Phil's left hand where a rake of thin white scars ran across the back, then to the stretch of skin, where his neck met his shoulder and a starburst of nicks lay. He nodded.

"Am I…" Phil licked his dry lips, struggling to speak through his parched mouth, "Have I killed people?"

"Phil-"

"Answer the question please."

Clint sighed, "We were part of an agency, even before the Avengers. We were a defence." His mouth twisted, "A shield, of sorts. You and I, we've both killed."

And even when part of him was expecting the answer, it still felt like a punch to the gut. The Avengers. _Jesus_. All those months he spent wondering, wishing, waiting to know have cumulated to this.

He wasn't ready.

But being ready was a luxury Phil had found seldom afforded to him this past year. He took a breath. "Why didn't you tell me?"

The words hung between them, and Clint worried at his lip; it was a tell, freely given. "How could I? That first day, you looked over at me and there was nothing. Not a hint of recognition, like I was some kind of stranger. Like everything we had was just gone."

He looked down at the lined page, at Phil's meticulously documented notes. Against the white grain of the pages, his nails were ragged and bitten to the quick, "You're not the same person, that you were."

"I wouldn't know." Phil had spent an entire year not knowing. That this may change was an idea almost too massive for him to comprehend. That he wasn't just wandering.. That there was someone out there who knew who he was.

That there was someone who knew that he'd been lost and had left him to drift.

"How could you?" The words tore out unbidden and the ferocity of it startled even him.

"Phil, there are things you don't understand-"

"You _do not_ get to decide." Angry, maybe for the first time since he'd woken, Phil nearly spat out the words. He thought about being terrified, about being confused, about being lonely; he thought about every emotion he'd felt this past year and for the first time, he broke through the ennui that had entrapped him and found that he was boiling with rage, "How could you just toy with me, with my life. Make me love you, like it was a game. What -"

"I killed you." Clint shouted. He stood, sending the chair toppling over with a clatter. "It was my fault. Is that what you wanted to hear? I killed you."

He spun to face Phil, but stumbled as the lingering effects of the concussion made themselves known. Instinctively, Phil reached out to catch him. Clint landed hard against his body and they overbalanced and fell, sprawled against the hardwood. The wind knocked out of him as they landed with Clint pressed to his chest, a hand braced against the ridge of scar tissue on his chest.

Phil's anger left as swiftly as it had come and for a moment, they lay still, breathing in each others' space.

"I'm sorry." Clint whispered against Phil's skin. He didn't seem inclined to move and Phil wasn't going to make him. "I'm so sorry Phil." He visibly deflated, closed his eyes against the fabric of Phil's shirt. The strains of the past year were more visible, tiredness etched into every line. There were half-scabbed cuts on his face that continued down his neck, half hidden in the shadows. Quieter, he said, "A year ago, I lead an attack on SHIELD. Thirty-six people were killed, including you. Then two nights ago, I lead two mercenaries straight to your door."

Phil flashed back to the beginning, when he first woke up, the blinding agony that burned through him with each throb of his heart. He could feel Clint pressed to the long healed scar, scalding hot even through the layers of fabric. Could feel the phantom burn of blood in his throat, like he was drowning all over again. "Clint-"

"Phil, I love you." Clint said. "Loved you; I don't know. But I can't do this. Can't keep losing you.

"You have a life here. A good one." Clint pushed back and got to his feet. He seemed to have come to a decision and before Phil's eyes, he steeled himself, tucking emotions away until he couldn't see them any longer. "I didn't come here to bring you back. I came here because you deserved to know who you were, so you could let him go." _So I could let him go._ Clint didn't say, but Phil heard it anyway.

He was already between Phil and the door, set to leave, to take everything he knew with him. Desperately, Phil scrambled to block him. "Don't I get a choice?"

Clint pressed a kiss to Phil's forehead. A benediction. A goodbye. He shook his head. "Goodbye Phil."

"Wait, don't go." Phil grabbed his wrist. "I… I have cereal."

Clint frowned, "You have what?"

"I have cereal." Phil paused, suddenly hesitant. He gestured uncertainly in the direction of his kitchen "Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I - I have boxes of it. I have a cupboard filled with boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch because I can't walk out of the grocery store with buying it and I don't why."

"Phil - "

He grabbed his notebook, shoved it into the space in between them. "Everything you've read in here, that's all I have. An entire year of nothing. You're right, I don't remember anything about you, but ever since I woke up, it's felt like a piece of me has been ripped out and the only thing I can do is keep filling it with boxes of cereal I don't even like."

Clint's face crumpled, "Don't do this to me. You don't know how hard it was to let go of you."

"So don't." Phil pleaded, "Please. I need to know. Everything, even the bad. I can't keep living like this. I can't stand not knowing."

Clint stared down at Phil's book. The cover was bent and worn, nearly torn off, the coil bent, the pages crinkled from handling. In it is over a year's worth of guesses and theories, questions and frustrations. Pages upon pages of achingly familiar black writing that Clint flipped through now and when he couldn't take anymore, he closed his eyes and took in a shuddering breath.

"You like your coffee scalding hot in the morning" Clint whispered, "And you make them put it in your Costco travel mug because you never get to it right away and that way, it's still warm when you finally finish all your morning work. When you debrief, you like it without cream, because the bitterness reminds you to sip."

Clint opened his eyes and met Phil square on, his eyes bright and pleading, "And when you train junior agents, you make us leave the apartment early so we can go to that Starbucks that has all the syrups so you can get your venti Irish mint and melon monstrosity."

Knees weak, Phil put a hand out to steady himself. "I don't remember."

"I do." Clint said with certainty. "I remember everything about you."

He flipped the notebook to the back, where the ruled lines were empty and waiting. Pen poised, he pressed the tip to the paper and began to write.


End file.
